Crabapple Tree

I see the crabapple trees blossoming around town.

That’s my cue.

I drive to our old house, the one where we lived for 17 years 

and left 20 years ago.

I stop as I near what still seems to be our house. 

The occupants—I mean, the new owners—don’t appear to be around. 

I take in the sight of a million white blossoms. 

It was but a broomstick when I planted it, 

my little girl playing in the front yard.

I dug the hole of proper depth

And the little piece of arboreal promise was carefully set in place. 

Filled back in with soil, tamped down, and the legacy begun. 

It grew with, and over, my kids for 16 springtimes. 

Each year it graced our eyes and noses with more and more blossoms. 

Many a spring snowfall, I shook it with a rake to keep the branches from snapping, the blossoms acting like little catcher’s mitts holding more snow than was good for them.

Fall was a sticky, pungent ring of rust-colored crabapplesauce around the tree. 

The birds ate a few of them, but most turned to mush in the grass, 

and not a few dragged into the living room carpet.

So today, I drive by and admire what God and I have done.

Although I suppose it’s legally part of the property the new owner possesses, 

it is still our tree. 

Crabapple trees recognize no such thing as real estate law or property descriptions. 

It is still our tree.